


and i feel you dreaming

by mortydazzler



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, But it's what y'all are getting, Established Relationship, Incest, It's less dark than the summary implies I think, M/M, Not really the fic I set out to write, One Shot, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23901805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortydazzler/pseuds/mortydazzler
Summary: It’s any other Wednesday evening: get home from school, spend a few hours poring over homework you don’t understand, wonder what’s up with Mom and Italian food lately (isn’t this the third time you’ve had pasta this week?), watch TV, fall into bed around eleven, fall asleep at midnight.Wake up at two a.m. to Rick’s silhouette against the low light in the hallway, tamping down the jolt of anxiety that still makes your chest tighten, even though it’s the million-and-first time he’s done this. Draw your knees up to make it harder for him to drag you out of bed, turn on the lamp on your nightstand.
Relationships: Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith
Comments: 6
Kudos: 143





	and i feel you dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> Is this the fic I set out to write? Not at all.  
> Did I make a point to write it in second person? Nope! That is just how it happened. 
> 
> I would consider this the first real smut I've written, so y'know, go easy on me.
> 
> Title comes from the Bad Suns' song "Pretend," which doesn't have a whole lot to do with this fic, but I like it.

It’s any other Wednesday evening: get home from school, spend a few hours poring over homework you don’t understand, wonder what’s up with Mom and Italian food lately (isn’t this the third time you’ve had pasta this week?), watch TV, fall into bed around eleven, fall asleep at midnight.

Wake up at two a.m. to Rick’s silhouette against the low light in the hallway, tamping down the jolt of anxiety that still makes your chest tighten, even though it’s the million-and-first time he’s done this. Draw your knees up to make it harder for him to drag you out of bed, turn on the lamp on your nightstand. 

“Morty,” he’s slurring, and your mind jumps to work, analyzing the data Rick is feeding it as he stumbles forward, crawls onto your bed, grabs your shoulders, “I - I fuckin’, I did it, Morty, I did it.” 

Status report: Rick is drunk-- duh-- but he’s pleased with himself, which decreases the odds of his paranoia getting the better of him. He’s not going to pull a knife on you, at any rate. Probably. If he were going to take you somewhere, you wouldn’t be under the covers anymore. Average bed-to-ship travel time is approximately three and a half minutes, give or take thirty seconds depending on what stage of the sleep cycle you’re in when he wakes you. 

… Okay, so you timed it twice and called it a day. But you bet Rick could give you a better figure. You let out a pained gasp when his fingers start to dig into the flesh of your arms.

_“Morty,”_ he says, insistent, eyes bright. “Whatcha thinkin’ about, little buddy? What’s got you - cat got your tongue, huh?”

Whoops-- you took too long. Shouldn’t be too difficult to make him forget it, though. 

“N-nothing, Rick,” you reply, voice level. “What did you do?”

His ego takes over from there. “I created the multiverse’s premier cryptocurrency, Morty. RickCoin’s gonna make the flurbo obsolete, baby,” Rick breathes into your ear. Whatever he’s been drinking smells of strawberries and paint thinner. You barely know how cryptocurrency works on Earth, much less in other places, so you just play the part you’ve been given.

“Oh yeah?” 

“Mhmm,” and Rick lets slip the reason he’s really here, tips his hand as he slides one up your shirt. His fingers roam across your chest, eventually finding one of your nipples and giving it a tweak. You draw in a sharp breath. "Really gonna show those fuckers on the Citadel what's what."

You understand, of course, the reasons Rick has for hating his other selves. That doesn't stop you from being a little sad when you think about it. The potential that even a few Ricks working together have is amazing-- you can't imagine what they'd all do if they could actually get along. Interacting with other Mortys can be painful at times, but you've always felt an underlying sense of kinship: every Morty you've met knows, to some degree, what you're going through. Unlike the Ricks, they don’t deny that fact, even as they strive to be unique. 

Rick must have realized that you're not paying him your full attention, because all of a sudden he turns his head and licks hotly up your cheek, making you twist beneath him. You take a breath to complain, but he sees it coming, claiming your open mouth in a kiss that steals the words. You lose yourself in it, in him, in the leisurely slide of his lips against yours. The sounds Rick makes for you are intoxicating, little groans and sighs that he has to rein in for the sake of being quiet. 

Rick pulls back, leaves you lightheaded and wanting. He must see it on your face-- he snickers, tugging at your shirt where it's rucked up to your armpits. Your arms could be tree trunks for all the effort it takes to lift them up, and then cool air washes over the rest of your torso. Rick's pulled off his sweater, too. You drink in the sight, relish the way the soft light illuminates the flat planes of his chest, and when your eyes snap back up to his face you realize that he’s staring at you. 

It’s an intimidating gaze to be on the receiving end of, even when Rick doesn't want to kill you. His eyes fix you to the bed just as well as his hands did. This on top of an uncharacteristic silence has you blushing, wanting to look away. You sense you’re being tested somehow, however, so you don't. 

Instead, you reach out, running your fingertips up and down Rick's outer thigh. It's not a particularly sexy touch, mainly just what you can reach with him sitting on you. Rick catches your wrist, pressing his thumb to your pulse point and holding it there. A minute trickles by. What’s he doing, making sure you’re alive? You raise an eyebrow.

"Gee, Rick, you sure are, sure are taking your time tonight, huh?" 

His eyes narrow. "Oh, I-I'm sorry, am I taking my victory fuck too slow for your busy schedule, Morty? Are _you_ the guy fielding inquiries from - from hundreds of potential investors right now? Y-y-y-you’d rather I pounded your ass into the mattress like I’ve got a gun to my head? Fine,” he growls, climbing off of you, turning away. 

“I-I-I-I wasn’t even complaining! It was just an observa--”

“Too late,” Rick says, cutting you off in his ‘Morty-don’t-push-it’ voice. “Turn over.” You hear the faint jingle of his belt and grab a handful of the blankets in anticipation as you obey. The only way you can see what he’s doing is to crane your neck at a painful angle, but letting him take you by total surprise tends to end badly. When he turns around again, Rick has a bottle of lube in one hand, and he wastes no time in grabbing your ankle with the other, yanking you bodily down the bed. It’s not at all the type of friction your poor dick was hoping for, trapped under you as it is; in fact, the position you end up in is pretty uncomfortable, legs spread and dangling off the bed, barely supporting yourself on tiptoes. 

Rick pushes one finger into you, but the tension in your legs isn’t exactly helping you loosen up, so to speak.

“Christ, Morty, calm down,” he mutters, like it isn’t his fault. “Asshole like a fuckin’, like a cigar cutter, like a goddamn guillotine, Jesus.” You have to shut your eyes, focus on relaxing muscles one at a time without losing your balance. Rick adds more lube and a second finger, having an easier go of it now. You feel the stretch with the third, but it isn’t enough, and Rick isn’t feeling generous-- he very pointedly avoids your prostate, making you wriggle, chase your pleasure in vain. 

"Rick, please," you say, half-sobbing. Nothing winds you up quite like frustration: never in short supply when you're with Rick, especially when you're frustrated by your own inability to keep your mouth shut, which is always. 

"Please what, baby," and doesn't that just twist the knife, lust spiking traitorous in your belly. His fingers stop moving inside of you. "You want my dick, huh?" Your cock throbs at the suggestion. Rick sounds so unaffected, blasé, like he's solving an everyday problem for some simpleton. You guess he kind of is. You're nodding before you get the chance to be mad about it, though, mashing your face against the jersey cotton of your sheets with an affirmative whine. 

"Well," Rick says, removing his fingers, slicking himself up, “since you’re so - since you’re in such a hurry and all, Morty.” You feel him, then, teasing at your rim, and your legs almost give out when he finally presses in. It’s all you can do to press your mouth into your arm, muffling the moan he wrings out of you.

“Rick, I - I can’t, can’t,” why are words so _difficult?_ “My legs, ‘m gonna fall,” you say, trying to catch your breath. Your calves are on fire, but Rick doesn’t give any sign that he’s heard you. Not until his arm slides around your middle, pulling you up and back against his own chest, your back arching as you sink down onto him. You’ll still be sore if you stay like this a long time, but at least he’s supporting most of your weight now. For a moment, everything is still. Then Rick pulls out slightly, adjusts the angle of his hips, and slams in hard. 

Your vision blurs; you scrabble at the arm holding you, gripping it like it’s the only thing tying you to this plane of existence. Rick’s thrusts are short, punishing, and his body heat is almost unbearable where your bodies meet-- you can feel yourself starting to sweat in earnest. 

“God, Morty-- fuck,” Rick says through gritted teeth, and you smile. Not so nonchalant now, is he? But your smile is short-lived, because suddenly Rick is shifting behind you. He pulls out, grabs your bicep-- will you ever go a single day without him manhandling you?-- and pivots, herding you up against the wall by the door. He flings the winter coat that’s hanging there across the room, freeing up space for your hands to rest as he bends you over _again._

You’re a little irritated by this (to the extent that you can be while having sex, at least). The muscles in your back don’t appreciate being strained in this particular fashion. And you could say something about it, but with the mood Rick is in, there’s no way it’d bode well for you. Luckily, though, you’re pretty adept at reading Rick’s tells, and you know he’s close. It’s the change in his breathing, and the way he fucks into you, brisk, chasing his pleasure.

“Riiick,” you moan out, plaintive, mostly genuine. Rick thinks he’s such a bigshot when it comes to manipulation, but you know how to play him too, sometimes. He likes it when you make noise for him, when you sound desperate, when you reach back and put your hand on his where it’s gripping your waist. He likes it so much that he has mercy on you at last, wrapping a hand around your cock and clearing every thought you’ve ever had out of your mind on the first stroke. 

It doesn’t take long after that. Your orgasm punches the breath out of your lungs, and Rick fucks you through it until you’re shaking, until his hips stutter to a stop inside you and he comes with a satisfied groan. His cum dribbles down your leg when he pulls out, but you can’t be bothered to care too much, letting gravity do its work while you cling to Rick. You’ll shower when you wake up. Not like you’re going to school today.

You collapse together onto the bed, get under the covers. Rick holds you to him, his previous annoyance cast aside as he mutters into your hair.

“We’re gonna be so goddamn rich, Morty,” he sighs, “it’ll be great. Gonna - take you to Blips and Chitz, and then I’ll exchange some of my RickCoins and - and fuck you on a pile of smidgens…” 

Then he’s snoring, and it’s just another Wednesday night: hum contentedly as you stretch upward, press a kiss to Rick’s jawline; bask in the glow of his dreams, and the warmth of his arms around you, as you close your eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> And then Morty was achy as fuck the next morning in several different ways.  
> Also yes, it's technically a Thursday morning, so sue me.
> 
> Feel free to leave feedback/comments/kudos if you liked it.  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
